


John

by Findingthestars



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Abuse, Alternate Universe, Angst, Animals, Character Death, Dog John, Dogs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-20
Updated: 2013-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-20 18:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/890327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Findingthestars/pseuds/Findingthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is a golden retriever. Sherlock is, well...Sherlock. Yet the bond of friendship and (platonic) love between them remains the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired directly by [this](http://thebritishteapot.tumblr.com/post/40773418358/i-was-thinking-about-how-much-i-love-my-dog-and).

He had been beneath one of the many tunnels that were the only home to his network of homeless children and teens. While money was what he often gave, Sherlock had stopped at a local fish and chip shop. 

Sherlock stood in the damp and dark. The boy that Sherlock had spoken to had taken the money but refused the food. Sherlock hadn't left because he was thinking of how the information the boy gave him connected to the case. The heat from the package of hot food seeped into his gloves and the aroma proved an effective cover for the smell of rotten trash and human waste.

Sherlock heard something that was most decidedly _not_ human. He knew it was a dog before he turned. What he never expected, and what would puzzle him for years, was his own reaction; one of near horror and anger at the sight of the animal.

The dog's fur, once some light blonde, was a dishwater grey. Sores were scattered along the animal like grotesque freckles. The dog's right hind leg had a pronounced limp. Sherlock winced as he saw a deep, infected, wound in the left shoulder of the dog. 

Sherlock slowly lowered himself and crouched as close to the dogs level as he could. He carefully opened the fish and chip wrapper. He didn't move, he didn't speak, he didn't hold out the hot food. He simply held the package in his hands and waited.

It took twenty minutes. The dog at first stood defensively, a rusty growl echoing off the tunnel walls. The dog then sat, but not fully on the ground. It was at if the dog was preparing to run off at any moment. The dog finally moved, it's body shaking, towards Sherlock. 

Sherlock was intrigued by what he was able to deduce from the animal:

_Male. Former hunting dog. Not confined to a kennel or stable. Family pet. Origins of hind leg injury unknown. Driven from home and abandoned, likely by elder family member._

The dog's nose twitched as he deeply inhaled the scent from the food in Sherlock's hands. 

_Once member of a pack. Abandoned, again, due to shoulder injury._

The dog's eyes did not leave Sherlock's as he stretched his neck towards the food. Sherlock slowly lowered his eyes. The dogs tail flicked once as it snatched a piece of fish.

It took two weeks. Two weeks Sherlock of crouching silently. Two weeks of offered food. Two weeks of lowering his eyes and then slowly raising them to finally meet, and keep a steady gaze with, the dogs oddly deep blue ones. Two weeks before the animal sat before Sherlock and allowed him to briefly touch the top of his filthy head speckled with sores.

Sherlock researched, and interviewed, during those two weeks. He discovered the best veterinarian in all of London. 

When Sherlock opened the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat he was greeted by her gasp.

"Oh, the poor babe." She stepped forward.

"Don't touch him." Sherlock snapped. Sherlock softened slightly at the look in Mrs. Hudson's eyes "he doesn't trust anyone to touch him. They nearly had to sedate him at the veterinarian's."

Mrs. Hudson frowned "poor thing."

"Boy. His name is John."

Mrs. Hudson tilted her head, her eyes widening in surprise.

"What?" Sherlock scowled.

"John? Such an ordinary name."

Sherlock placed his hands on his hips "his name is John."

Mrs. Hudson nodded, a humorous grin lighting up her face and eyes.

That had been eight years ago. John had proved the one constant in Sherlock's life. When Sherlock would sleep, John would curl at the end of the bed. He'd press his back against Sherlock's leg. John never moved when Sherlock kicked him in his sleep. If Sherlock moved position. John would move too, making sure to keep constant, physical, contact.

The first time Sherlock brought John with him to a case, Lestrade complained, and yelled, and complained some more. It wasn't until he saw that John would sit unmoving in the farthest corner of the crime scene, and proved to better Sherlock's attitide slightly, that Lestrade agreed. John's eye's always followed Sherlock. Several times John would let out a short bark and thump his tail against the ground when Sherlock announced a vital clue. Every time John would react in such a way, Lestrade saw the barest of smiles, so rare, flick across and brighten Sherlock's face.

On those days when a lack of cases, or his own mind, overwhelmed Sherlock, John wouldn't jump on the couch and splay himself across Sherlock's body. John would press his head on the cushions, his nose centimeters from Sherlock's neck. The breath from his nose would create a steady, warm, and soothing beat. Sherlock, no matter how deeply he was lost, would eventually reach his hand out and stroke the top of John's head. Even when Sherlock finally succumbed to sleep, John would not move.

It took three days of John not eating before Sherlock decided something was wrong, that John was not just so tired that he had lost his appetite after a long case.

Sherlock accepted the veterinarian's announcement with with a nod of his head. Thanked the receptionist-the same woman for all the years-when he made the appointment. He then walked John through the streets. Visiting places of old cases, stopping at Angelo's, sitting on a park bench and observing as John watched the ducks eagerly.

Sherlock had acquired a television years earlier when it was proved that knowing aspects of current entertainment was sometimes vital to a case. One night he'd stopped on a Bond movie. John's ears perked up, his mouth opened; tongue lolling out, and his tail wagged.

A dog that loved Bond movies. How unique. How very _John_.

Sherlock spent the entire night watching a variety of Bond movies with John. For hours, John had sat up, tail wagging, barking a few times. When John finally lowered himself onto Sherlock's lap and fell asleep, Sherlock did not turn the movies off. He ran his hands through John's coat, massaging and petting him until the sun rose.

Sherlock dressed slowly. When he opened his bedroom door, John was sitting on the floor. He stared at Sherlock, a look of eagerness of what the day would bring in his dark blue eyes.

Sherlock sank to his knees. He embraced John, wrapped his knees against John's sides and buried his face in John's fur. When John placed his snout on Sherlock's head, the soft fur of his neck pressing into Sherlock's forehead, Sherlock broke.

It was one of this first times in his entire life that Sherlock cried honestly.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Sherlock clutched John's sides "the vet said I could wait, but that would only mean pain. So much pain." Sherlock leaned back "I won't do that to you." Sherlock caressed John's head "'Man's best friend'. You've been more than that. So much more. Everything you've done and all I've ever been able to do in return is..." Sherlock rubbed the heel of his hand against his right cheek. John leaned forward and licked Sherlock's other cheek. John let out a small huff of breath, stood and walked to his leash. He looked from the leash and back to Sherlock. He barked once.

When Sherlock returned, he placed John's collar on the mantel between the skull and the knife. Every evening, Sherlock would brush his fingers across the collar and smile.


End file.
